A day or two passed by, and nothing more was heard of Carew’s combat with the young watcher; some other mad frolic had doubtless entered into the Squire’s head and driven that one out.  The hot punch imbibed after his swim in the Decoy Pond seemed to have averted all evil consequences, or perhaps he was case-hardened to such things.  It was not uncommon with him to spend whole winter nights on a neighboring “broad,” in pursuit of the mere-fowl that haunted it, in water or ice or swamp.  He treated his body as an enemy, and strove to subdue it—­though not for the good reasons of the Apostle—­by every sort of harshness and imprudence; or rather he behaved toward it as a wayward father toward his child—­at one time with cruel severity, at another with the utmost luxury and indulgence.  No rich man, probably, ever gave his heir so many chances of inheritance, or excited in him so many false hopes, as did the Squire of Crompton, who had no heir.

The hunting season had begun with him after its usual fashion; he seldom troubled himself to find a fox, but turned one out of a bag to insure sport, or ran a drag over the most difficult and dangerous country that could be selected.

Yorke had almost made up his mind to take the keeper’s advice, and distinguish himself by putting his neck to the same risks as Carew, on horseback, in order to recommend himself to his notice, when an event occurred by which he attained his end in another way.

Tired of the park, wherein he had dwelled so long, and which every day the approach of winter made more bare and desolate, he had taken a solitary walk along the highway which led to the market-town.  He was returning, and had reached the top of the long hill where the park fence began, and a high solid gate—­so that no dogs could enter—­gave access to that wild domain, when a confused murmur in the keen blue air caused him to look back.  For a mile or more the road was straight, and the leafless trees and hedges left the prospect open to him in all directions; at the extremity of the road was some huge moving object, which, advancing at great speed, disclosed the Squire’s mail phaeton, drawn by four antlered stags, and followed at some distance by three or four mounted grooms, apparently unable to keep up with him.  Carew himself was standing up like some charioteer of old, and, although he already outstripped the very wind, was laying about him frantically with his whip, as up the hill the frightened creatures tore as if the ground were level.  The reason of this headlong speed was at the same time made evident by the appearance of a pack of hounds, which, followed by a numerous field in scarlet, was coming across the grass-land in full cry.  The spectacle, though weird and strange, was by no means without a certain grandeur—­like some barbarous pageant.  Yorke understood the situation at a glance.  He had heard the keeper say that, not content with his wild progresses through the park, the Squire had sworn to drive his stags